Chapter Seven
The sound of the door slamming behind Oliver Tuesday morning woke me up and I jerked to a sitting position, looking wildly around for my alarm clock. It was only five thirty, and I sank back into the pillows, my heart going a mile a minute. I'd dreamt all night that the alarm hadn't gone off at all and I'd missed the first three hours of work, only to show up wearing a huge chocolate chip cookie. Maybe I should stop making them.
Mr. P was still asleep when I came into the kitchen, fully dressed and more anxious than I cared to admit, even to myself. "Wake up, sleepyhead," I called, poking his bed with my toe. It was kind of nice to be the one doing the wake-up call for a change. He rolled over and cracked an eye open to look at me for a millisecond before going back to his original position and snuffling loudly.
I flipped through my doggie manual to see how I was supposed to handle a dog while fully employed outside the home and found a single page at the back of the binder with only these words on it: If you need to be gone during the day, please unlatch the dog door and make sure the gate outside is closed and locked. We don't want any mistakes in the house! I rolled my eyes and read on. Make sure his stuffed animals are near his bed. They comfort him when he's alone.
Stuffed animals? How had I never noticed any? I poked around Mr. P as best I could and came up with not one, but two stuffed dachshunds. Bea must have thought Mr. P would view them as his little brothers or something. I was just grateful that Oliver didn't treat me and Josie the way Mr. P was treating his siblings – if that was what these stuffed things were supposed to represent.
I made it to the catering company's parking lot half an hour early, and seconds after I parked my mother called with last-minute advice. "Now, Katie, honey, I know this is your first day and I want to make sure everything goes just perfectly for you." I could practically feel her reach across the phone line to rub my back. "I know you're a big girl and all, but you should never underestimate the power of a beautiful smile. So be sure to take a toothbrush with you, and floss, too."
I sat there in the driver's seat, slightly stunned. I hadn't even had the chance to say 'hello' before she started in on me. "Mom, I don't think – "
"And another thing," she went on, pretending I hadn't interrupted her. "It's also important to remember to be respectful, even when your new boss does something you don't agree with. I know you were a little lippy with Bob, and that's different because he's family, but now you're in a different situation so you need to be sure you do what you're told without arguing."
I hadn't thought I'd argued with Bob. Maybe I'd grumbled now and then when he told me to take his dog to the vet, but that dog had it in for me. He'd peed on my new shoes, after all, and that should say something. "Mom, I know that – "
"Sweetie, I'm sure you'll do just fine. The only other piece of advice I have for you is that you should always make double copies."
"That's not very environmentally sound, Mom."
She clicked her tongue at me. "I know, but those big-city men can be devious when they need to, and I don't want anyone taking advantage of my little girl's trusting nature. So just do this one little thing for me, and your father and I will plant a tree in the backyard to make up for all the paper you'll be using."
I swear, my mother was becoming more like Mrs. Bennet every day. While I secretly dreamed that my life would emulate Elizabeth's, there were certain aspects that I was pretty sure I could do without. As long as my dad didn't start hiding in the library I might be safe. Of course, we didn't have a library . . .
"Thanks, Mom," I said, trying to sound cheerful and grateful but only succeeding in sounding desperate. "I really appreciate all the advice. But now I've got to run. Can I email you later?"
She didn't say anything for a few seconds, and when her voice came back it wasn't quite as authoritative as it had been before. "Email? I suppose I could . . . "
"I'll send you a message tonight, then, after I get back from dinner. Tell Dad and Josie I said hey. Love you." Then, before she could utter another syllable, I snapped the phone closed and leaned my head back, breathing deeply. I should never have given my number to my mother.
After a second, though, I began to think about what she'd said. Not the respect thing; regardless of what she'd imagined, I'd always tried to do my best by Bob. But what if she was right, and I'd be protecting myself if I make an extra copy of everything I did at Peter's Perfect Catering? I'd never worked for anyone remotely like this guy before, and I hardly knew what kind of person he was. It couldn't hurt to watch my back. And Mom should know – she'd watched enough crime shows to have learned something besides how to be paranoid, right?
With that settled in my mind I walked purposefully through the front doors. Agnes was already ensconced behind her computer, and she looked at me with an expression that said she was not looking forward to yet another day of pandering to the masses. I smiled at her as widely as I could. "Hi, Agnes. I'm Katie."
She just sat there and stared at me, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. It was all I could do to stop myself from reaching over the computer and pushing them up on her nose. "I wanted to introduce myself," I went on, "since it looks like I'll be seeing you every day."
She stretched out her hand so slowly that I could barely see it moving and pushed the button that opened the door at the rear of the foyer. "Good day, Miss Embury."
My smile faltering a bit, I gripped my plate of cookies tighter and edged around her desk. On the way to Mr. Selman's office I vowed to win Agnes over to my side, no matter what – or how many cookies – it took. Maybe all she needed was a little love.
A vase of yellow flowers (was I never to escape the color yellow? It seemed to be following me everywhere) had been placed in front of my chair, and I breathed in their scent appreciatively after I'd dumped my things in a drawer. Working for Mr. Selman couldn't be all that bad if fresh flowers were included in the bargain.
Mr. Selman's office door was open, and I stuck my head in to see if he'd beaten me to work. I'd wanted to be there before him to show that I could be punctual, and for once my luck was holding. I walked in like I knew what I was supposed to be doing and opened the blinds. I tried opening the window to let some fresh air into the musty room but the lock was stuck, and in the process of trying to jar it loose the blinds got caught in my hair. The more I whacked at those stupid blinds the more hairs got pulled out, and I finally wrenched myself loose and fled the scene, hoping no one noticed that a few of them were now pointing in haphazard directions. Maybe no one had seen me wrestle with an inanimate object.
I sat in my chair, slightly freaked by the whole thing, and yanked open a drawer in search of something – anything -- to help put my head back together. The only thing I found, apart from a myriad of pens and pencils, which I stuck into my impromptu bun at random (I was sure I looked like I'd been attacked by a mad knitter, but there was nothing else to use), was a sticky note that said Printer on it.
I looked at the printer with some apprehension. Was something wrong with it? I hadn't really paid much attention to it before, but now I saw that there were several small boxes lined up against its front.
I leaned over and picked one up. It seemed to contain an ink cartridge. I took a deep breath. There had, unfortunately, been something to what Oliver had said a few days before about me being a technological idiot. But if I didn't do this, who would? Surely not Mr. Selman. And really, how hard could it be?
I knew exactly how hard it could be fifteen minutes later. Mr. Selman, to my great relief, had yet to walk into the building, but the printer was no closer to having new ink cartridges than I was. I put them back on the printer table and leaned my head against the machine, trying to communicate to it that I would appreciate its cooperation, when my elbow knocked one of the plastic containers onto the floor.
I stared down at it, hoping that this wasn't the printer's way of telling me to give up and go home before I made a complete fool of myself (and wondering where I'd picked up the habit of personifying office machinery) when I spotted something red oozing onto the floor.
I reached down to grab the box so fast that I fell out of my chair, and when I hit the ground my hand landed squarely on the thing. Before I knew it, red ink had blasted all over the carpet, across my hands, and onto my white blouse, making me look like I'd just been the victim of a shooter with such terrible aim that he'd had to try over and over again to hit just the right spot. I sat there on the floor for a long second, wiping at the stain on my front – which just made it worse – when a pair of brown loafers appeared under the table.
"Excuse me," said the voice I'd been thinking about for a week. "I don't mean to pry, but are you okay?"
Groaning inwardly, I ran a hand across my face and wished I could sneak out the back door. Why did Sam have to come across me in my worst possible moments? Darcy never accosted Elizabeth at inopportune times; even when he found her with her dress soaked in mud the only thing he thought of was how beautiful her eyes were. There was no way Sam was going to notice my brilliant green eyes over my fantastically murdered mid-section – or my gorgeous porcupine hairdo. "I'm fine," I said, hoping the hand I'd rubbed against my forehead hadn't been the one soaked in red ink. "I'm afraid I've had a bit of trouble, though."
There was silence on the other side of the printer for a moment, and then Sam made a noise that sounded, if not exactly like a laugh, then close enough to make me wish I'd been too sick to come in that morning. "Are you going to come out of there?"
Knowing I was going to have to emerge sooner or later I heaved myself into my chair and looked up to see Sam's amused face. It only took half a second for him to register my appearance, and then he was around the desk before I'd even realized that he'd moved.
"Good heavens, what happened to you? Did someone do this to you?" He grabbed for the phone with one hand and put the other on my forehead where I'd rubbed it. "Agnes!" he barked into the phone. "Connect me to 911!"
"Stop that," I hissed, trying to get the phone out of his hands. "I'm perfectly all right. I just had a run-in with the printer."
He stared at me for a long moment, the phone dangling loosely from his hand. I could hear Agnes's voice squawking, "Sam? Where are you? What's happened?" and knew that any hopes I'd had of winning her over had just vanished. Well, as long as she didn't bar me from the building for sheer stupidity, I'd learn to live with her icy stares.
Sam lifted the receiver to his ear and said, "Never mind, Agnes. My mistake." Then he placed it carefully back on the desk, threw his head back, and laughed so hard that he made no noise whatsoever. "What is it," he gasped when he'd gotten himself under a semblance of control again, "that makes insanely funny things happen to you? Have you always been like this?"
I tried to glare at him but the situation was pretty funny, and I was having a hard time keeping a straight face – a fact that he knew, because he grinned hugely at me. "I think it's you," I told him, half-serious. "I never got into trouble like this at home. I'm actually pretty boring, to tell you the truth."
His head tilting slightly, he regarded me for a minute before shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Katie," he told me, "but I'm having a hard time believing that."
"What in the world happened here?"
I dropped that stupid box on the table and tried to look as innocent as possible. "Hi, Hannah," Sam said, moving to sit on the floor next to me. His knees must have been killing him. "Katie and I were just discussing the amount of trouble a person can get into while at work."
Her gaze moved from the ink cartridge to me and she covered her mouth with her hand. "You'd better change before Dad gets here," she said when her facial muscles weren't twitching so hard. "Do you have any spare clothes?"
I glanced down at my blouse and winced. It was ruined for sure. There was no way I could present myself to Mr. Selman in this state – especially not on my first day. "No," I confessed, starting to panic. "This is all I've got. Should I go home and change?"
Shaking her head, Hannah looked behind her. "No, Dad's on his way in. You'd better give her a company shirt, Sam. Quickly, I just heard the door slide open." She walked briskly back the way she had come, calling, "Sir, I have some numbers I need you to look at before you do anything else this morning."
Sam grabbed my hand and threw the cartridge in the trash. "Give us five minutes," he told his sister. "Come with me, Katie. I'll help you get cleaned up."
I followed him through Mr. Selman's office and into his bathroom. I was trying to picture exactly how he was going to do the helping when he turned to me with a funny smile on his face. "We'd better get your face washed before we do anything else," he said, wetting a washcloth in the sink and handing it to me.
I looked in the mirror and quickly closed my eyes. I looked like a circus clown had started working on my forehead and then forgotten to do the rest. Scrubbing hard at the spot, I watched Sam in the mirror. His eyes were following my movements, his expression a mixture between amusement and something I couldn't quite place.
I shot surreptitious glances at him until I turned around for a final inspection. "Is that better?"
I wasn't all that surprised when he shook his head, especially since I'd been paying more attention to him than to my forehead. He stepped forward before I could resume scouring my skin and took the cloth from my hand. "Here, let me," he said in a low voice. "You're going to ruin your face."
I stood there, my eyes wide, as he cupped my chin in his free hand and rubbed the stain gently for what seemed like an eternity. Then he threw the washcloth in a bin in the corner and surveyed me, swallowing hard and inspecting his handiwork. "Now you're all back to normal," he said, his eyes lingering on my face. "You'd make a cute clown, but I think I prefer you in your natural state. Shall we get going?"
I was having a hard time thinking clearly. Had he done it on purpose? And was he suddenly a mind reader? Surely he had to know it was mean to do that to a girl. I wasn't made of stone, after all. I scowled at my reflection after he brushed past me. I was going to have to try to behave in a strictly professional way from now on. No more catastrophes, and definitely no more alone time with Sam. It wasn't good for my nerves. Oh, for pete's sake. Now I was sounding like Mrs. Bennet.
Fortunately I kept all my internal thoughts internal for a change and Sam started counting under his breath. I watched in amazement as he straightened and then stepped hard on one of the tiles between the shower and the toilet. A section of the wall slid noiselessly aside, and I yanked on the back of his shirt after we'd emerged into another hallway. "Why does Mr. Selman have a secret door to his bathroom?"
He shook his head and tugged me forward. "My dad bought this building from a huge Star Trek geek," he explained. "The guy's wife refused to let him trekify her house, so when he built this place he didn't hold back. Dad thinks the sliding door in the bathroom is brilliant; it lets him sneak out of boring meetings, and none of his business cronies have figured out yet how he gets around so quickly."
"Oh," was all I could think of to say.
Sam stopped in front of his broom-closet office and ushered me inside. "I'm sorry this isn't much," he said apologetically. "I keep a few extra shirts in here in case I ever need to change in the middle of a party." He shut the door behind us and started rummaging through a stack of shirts hanging on the back of the door. So much for no more alone time with the man; we were stuffed inside that little closet so close that I could hear him breathe. I scooted to the other side of the desk where he wouldn't stumble into me if he moved too quickly. He frowned and looked me over slowly, then grinned. "I'm afraid I don't have any that will fit you very well. You're a lot shorter than I am."
His gaze lingered on my legs, and I squeezed them together. No bristles. I was going to have to start shaving every day, at least until it got too cold to go around with naked legs. I was starting to see how a girl could get used to all those Regency dresses. They tended to cover up unsightly leg hairs – and show off what you had upstairs at the same time. Maybe I could start a fashion statement.
"Thanks, Sam," I said quietly. "I don't know why you're being so nice to me. I may have just ruined the rug under my desk."
His hands stilled and he slowly turned to me. "Why wouldn't I do this for you?" he asked. "You didn't pour red ink all over on purpose, did you?"
"Well, no, but – "
"But nothing. Here, try this one. It's the smallest I've got." He thrust a shirt into my hands and opened the door. "I'll be outside when you're finished," he told me. Then he grinned. "Maybe I'm being nice to you so you'll give me your real phone number instead of a fake one this time." Then he closed the door, leaving me standing in the middle of his office to wonder what in the world he was talking about.
My mind was racing as I unbuttoned my ruined blouse. What did he mean, I'd give him the right number this time? I'd already given it to him. I crammed the company shirt over my head and managed to find the arm holes in the yards of fabric that seemed to be swimming around my head. Sam wasn't that tall, was he? At least it wasn't cut terribly wide.
He was leaning against the wall opposite his office when I opened the door a few minutes later, breathless from trying to shove the too-large shirt into my waistband. I was pretty sure I had a huge material lump on my derriere, but it was too late now; if I took much longer Mr. Selman'd catch me for sure. Sam straightened when he spotted me, and said, his face remaining very bland, "You look lovely. Much better than that homicide-victim thing you were going for before."
"I'd tell you to shut up, but since this is the second time you've saved my skin it'd be rude. What did you mean before, about my phone number? I wrote it down for you. I remember."
Sam lifted an eyebrow and led me toward Mr. Selman's office, going the long way around this time. I guessed he didn't want to get caught with me in the boss's bathroom. "I tried that number all week," he told me, a little exasperated. "Every time I called I got some little old lady. I was starting to think that you were a figment of my imagination until I went to Dad's for dinner last night and he couldn't stop talking about you."
I wasn't sure which was more surprising, the fact that Mr. Selman couldn't stop talking about me or that Sam had tried to call me back. More than once. "What number did I give you?"
He rattled off a number that sounded familiar, but was certainly not the one connected to the Butterworth's house. I shook my head, trying to think of why I would have given that to him. Then I started to laugh. "I can't believe it," I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth. "I gave you my Uncle Bob's number by mistake. You must have spoken with my aunt. Didn't she give you the right one?"
He face scrunched up, and he placed his hand on the small of my back to get me moving again. "No, she wouldn't. She told me you were obviously avoiding a stalker since I'd called so many times." He took a sidelong look at me. "I did wonder when the area code was different, but I figured you had a cell phone. Can I infer from your tone that you weren't trying to avoid me after all?"
"Absolutely not." Could I be any more obvious? Why wouldn't my mouth say reasonable things in his presence? "I mean, I'd been working for my uncle until last week, and half his friends would call when he was at home so I'd have to remind them to call there, and then they never could remember so I'd have to tell them again, and – "
Sam laughed, his fingers flexing on my back. "I believe you," he said, smiling down at me. "You'd better sit down; Dad's on his way. Are you okay? You seem a little flushed."
It must have been the rapid pace we'd set on our way back to my desk. At least, that was the explanation I was sticking to. I sank gratefully into my chair and tried to look efficient. "Thanks again for the shirt," I told him. "I'll get it back to you tomorrow."
"Keep it as long as you want. I like the idea of you having it." His phone beeped and he scanned his message before shaking his head. "I need to get going. Don't leave before I come by this afternoon."
Wild horses couldn't drag me into my car. "Don't worry," I said. "I won't."
***
Mr. Selman arrived shortly after his son had left, with Hannah hard on his heels. "Miss Embury!" he boomed in my direction. "Good to see you. Splendid clothing choice. Hannah has some forms for you to fill out." He grabbed a handful of cookies that I'd unwrapped on my desk. "I'll see you when you're finished." He disappeared into his office, leaving me to stare at his closed door.
Hannah pulled up a chair and sat across from me. "This was a brilliant idea," she said, nodding toward the cookies. "He can't resist sweets, and he knows it. More often than not he'll think of a reason to visit the kitchens so he can taste what the chefs have on the menu for the day. May I?"
When I nodded my assent she chewed one thoughtfully. "On second thought," she said, her mouth still full of chocolate chip cookie, "this may have been a disastrous idea. He just might want you to bring them in every day. What's in these things?"
Mr. Selman's door flew open and he stood in the doorway, a half-eaten cookie in his mouth. "Yes, Miss Embury, what's in these? They're simply divine." He reached out and grabbed another handful before I could say a word. Then he vanished into his office again.
Hannah scribbled something on a piece of paper and shoved it toward me. You have to be careful what you say around here, it read. The entire place is wired. That's how the last p.a. got fired – she was complaining about the boss while talking to her boyfriend on the phone.
I nodded dumbly, understanding now how he'd known on the day of my interview that I didn't own a cell phone. "Shall we get to work, then?" I asked in as cheerful a voice as I could muster.
Hannah shot me a sympathetic look and mouthed, "You'll do great," before I got to filling out forms.
The rest of the morning passed by in a blur, broken by fifteen minutes for lunch which was brought to me by someone who evidently worked in the kitchens. "Thanks," I told him, glad for a break. The man, whose name was Andre, according to his apron, just winked at me and scurried away.
I'd just stuffed a turkey sandwich into my mouth when my phone made a funny noise and 'new message' flashed on the screen. Remembering what Officer Fredericks (or Fred, as I was to call him when he wasn't working) had taught me, I pushed a few buttons and read my very first text.
Hey, this is Sam. Are you surviving in the lion's den?
I could feel myself grinning foolishly, and after ten minutes of painstaking button pushing I managed a response.
So far. How did you get my number? I don't even know what it is.
His answer came back almost immediately. Hannah gave it to me. Did you make these cookies? Hannah swiped me one and I think I'm in heaven.
Well, huh. The old proverb was true after all. One bite of chocolate chip goodness and the Selman men were eating out of my hands. Literally.
I'm glad you liked it. I'd offer you another one but your dad had them all eaten by ten.
Lucky bum, he wrote back. Hang in there. I'll be by around six.
By the time Sam came by that evening I wasn't quite as buoyant as I'd been at lunchtime. Mr. Selman and I had gone over his contact lists and he'd spent quite a bit of time explaining which of them were to be put through to him -- and why. Then we'd discussed his schedule, and I was a little dismayed to find that, most of the time, I'd be expected to attend his functions with him, starting with a golf outing the next day. What did he need a personal assistant for on the golf course? Couldn't he tally up his own score? All it took was a little simple arithmetic. Surely he had to know basic addition to build a successful business. Then again, he might have gone to school in Kentucky, which would explain a lot.
Mr. Selman had left already, and I had my head in my hand, pretending to study Mr. Selman's long list of contact dos and don'ts while running an inventory of my closet for golf clothes when Sam came by. "I'm glad to see you haven't tried to kill any more office supplies," he said, grinning at me as he sat in the chair Hannah had used that morning. "I'm glad to see that you've reformed your violent ways."
"Very funny," I muttered, leaning back in my chair and rolling my shoulders. He watched as I pulled my hair out of its knot on the back of my head and rubbed where I'd pulled it too tight. His fingers were twitching when I glanced back at him, and he seemed frozen to his seat.
"What have you been up to all day?" I asked, slumping back in my chair. Sam stared at me a second longer before jerking his attention away from my hair and to my eyes. "What? Oh, I went over the week's schedule with the managers and made sure we'd be ready for the Delanco party this Friday. It's a big one," he added when he saw my blank stare.
"Oh." Why couldn't I think of anything intelligent to say? Was I destined to make a fool of myself in front of him? Come on, self, I told myself sternly. Say something witty enough to make Elizabeth proud!
"I can't golf," I blurted.
He raised his eyebrows at me (both of them, thank goodness) and one side of his mouth turned up. "Who said you did?"
I shook my head, trying to get my brain to jump start itself. "No one, but I have to go on a golf outing tomorrow and Mr. Selman didn't tell me what I was supposed to do."
Sam seemed to find this very amusing. "Have you ever tried to golf?"
Come on, the man had seen me when I'd been tied up by a dog and shot by an ink cartridge. "No," I said a little defiantly. "I just can't see what the point is. I mean, you're hitting a little ball with a stick and expecting it to go into a hole only slightly larger than said ball miles away. You tell me why this makes sense."
Sam leaned his head back and laughed. "When you put it like that, it does sound a little silly," he gasped, wiping his eyes. "And no, you won't be expected to play. You're there to take his phone calls and make sure he has enough to drink. I'm sure you'll be able to handle it."
I closed my eyes and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. If my golf score was going to reflect my job performance I might as well start scanning the want ads right now. "I'm very glad to hear that. But what does one wear to a golf outing? I've never been on one before." I looked at Sam, hoping for some sort of inspired guidance. All I got was a strange look.
"You've looked great in everything I've seen you in so far," he said, gazing up at the ceiling. "So I'm sure whatever you have will be fine."
That was precisely the problem. I only had shorts and skirts, nothing in between. Well, it would just have to do. I started putting things away, and Sam gazed at my empty cookie plate sadly.
"I can't believe I only got one of those," he said mournfully. "I'll have to be faster on the uptake next time. You're bringing them in again, aren't you?"
"What? Oh, yeah. I told Mr. Selman I'd make cookies for him every Monday."
Sam whipped out his cell phone and typed something in.
"What are you doing?" I asked, only paying half attention. I was ready to get out of there.
"Putting it on my calendar. Hey, can I get your home number? The right one this time." He looked up at me expectantly, his fingers poised over the keypad on his phone.
I couldn't help laughing as I repeated to him, very slowly, the number at Bea's house. "I promise that's the right one," I said, trying to look serious. "And you already know the one for my cell."
Sam typed it in and flipped his phone closed. I put Mr. Selman's calendar away and, closing the drawer, got to my feet. I couldn't believe it had only been nine hours since I'd arrived. It felt more like nineteen.
Sam fell into step beside me on the way out. He was quiet until we passed Agnes's empty desk and he'd held the door open for me. "Hey, do you want to go out tonight? With me and Hannah, I mean. We could grab something for dinner, get to know each other a little better."
I'd just opened my mouth to tell him that of course I wanted to go to dinner with him when my cell phone buzzed with an incoming message. It was Oliver, wanting to know how long I'd be. Crap. In all the excitement of ink and cookies and Sam I'd managed to forget my 'date' with Josh and the Obsessions.
"I can't," I said miserably. "I already told my brother I'd meet him and a few of his friends for dinner right after work. I'm sorry." Was it really a lie to refer to Josh and Jessica as Oliver's friends and not mine? I'd already decided Jessica and I weren't meant to be buddies, and it was fairly obvious that her brother fell into the same category.
A flash of disappointment crossed Sam's face. "That's all right. Maybe another time?"
"Yes, definitely." My words tumbled out so close on the heels of Sam's that he smiled involuntarily.
"Okay, then we'll do it at the end of the week. Will I see you tomorrow at work?"
"Unless I get clobbered in the head with a golf ball."
Sam winced. "Maybe I'd better wait around the office until you get back. I've already seen what kind of damage you can do without really trying."
He leaned on the car door and watched as I buckled myself in. "I think I'll do that," he said, nodding his head. "And I'll check in with you periodically to keep your mind off of getting into trouble." He grinned down at me and shut the door, and I promptly opened the window. "It can't hurt to try."
I grinned at him. "Are you sure you're up for the challenge?" Come on, I couldn't help it. No one could tell me Elizabeth didn't enjoy a little flirtation; just look at what she'd done to poor Mr. Darcy the whole time she was at Netherfield. She probably couldn't help herself.
"Oh, Miss Embury, I'm up for anything you throw my way." Then he smiled at me one last time, ruffled my hair through the window, and walked away with his hands in his pockets, whistling as he went.
Since he liked challenges so much, maybe I should send him to dinner with Josh in my place.
Author's note: Well, Sam's back as promised! I hope he wasn't a complete disappointment. Let me know what you think!
Many thanks to Linnea for catching all my mistakes, small and large, and to CJ, who still thinks it's fun to see his research appear in the story. It's all for you, bro!
